(Part 1 of a five-part series.)

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Atlantan Soyia Ellison was captivated by Buenos Aires and decided to live there for a while.

Soyia Ellison/Special (ENLARGE)

Ellison first stayed in a bed-and-breakfast inn, Posada Palermo, managed by Alejandro Sarrias.

Soyia Ellison/Staff (ENLARGE)

This statue of Homer Simpson is in a bar in the San Telmo neighborhood of Buenos Aires, Argentina, a familiar face in a faraway place.

Soyia Ellison/Special (ENLARGE)

The Casa Rosada in Buenos Aires is the presidential palace where Eva Peron once famously waved from the balcony.

Buenos Aires begins to feel like home  Argentine adventure: Reality sets in, annoyances show up  Ex-Atlantan in Argentina gives in to tango temptation  Expatriate takes leap of faith, relocates to Argentina  Moving to Argentina, writer finds Spanish a tongue twister

Buenos Aires, Argentina — In 24 hours, I'll be homeless, in a country where I barely speak the language. And where I don't know anyone.

A couple of months ago, when I announced I was quitting my job and moving to Buenos Aires to do some writing and learn Spanish, people I barely knew came by my desk to congratulate me and confide that I was doing what they'd always wanted to do.

Oh, they didn't necessarily want to go to Buenos Aires. But they wanted to go somewhere, far away from their jobs and their families, and live the life of an expatriate. I was so brave, they said. I started to feel a little smug. But what I feel at the moment is panicked.

Setting out on this adventure wasn't easy. I am not a free spirit. I'm the oldest child, the responsible one who's worked steadily since graduating from college. I agonize over the smallest of purchases. I squirrel away money in 401(k)s and Roth IRAs. And yet, here I am, unemployed in a foreign land.

How I got here

Buenos Aires had captivated me 18 months earlier, when I took a weeklong vacation with a friend. Argentina's capital city has a definite European flavor, its hodgepodge of architectural styles reflect the large numbers of Spanish, Italian and Germans who settled here. Its people are beautiful and friendly. And since the peso crisis of 2002, it is unbelievably affordable.

As my friend and I wound our way through Recoleta Cemetery in search of Eva Perón's grave and cheered on the Boca Juniors soccer team from our spot in La Bombonera stadium, I thought: I want to come back here. To live.

The week ended, and that was that. But a few months later, my job duties changed, and my boyfriend and I broke up. I realized that if I wanted to go to Buenos Aires, now was the time.

For months, I agonized. It was crazy. It would drain my bank account. It would leave me with a gap on my résumé. Yet the dream persisted. I researched Buenos Aires apartments online and bookmarked expatriate Web sites. Buenos Aires is a port town — its residents refer to themselves as porteños — and for a while I was smitten with the idea of traveling here as a passenger on a cargo ship.

But I wasn't convinced I could really give up my Atlanta life until the day — stomach churning and palms sweating — I handed in my resignation. Even after selling my house and putting everything I owned in storage, even after buying a plane ticket, I still thought I might back out.

By the time I boarded the plane for my 10-hour flight, it had been more than a year since I'd made my first exploratory Web searches.

I'd made another trip first, to Spain, as a sort of dry run for Buenos Aires. My great-aunt lives in Madrid, so I had a free place to stay and someone to show me around. I had a wonderful time. But I also realized just how bad my Spanish was. Neither the college classes nor the refresher course I'd taken last summer could've prepared me for how quickly natives speak. Whenever it was my turn to talk, every word I knew beyond "si" flew out of my head.

So it was with some real trepidation that I walked down the Jetway for my overnight flight to Bs.As., as it's known. I worried about how long my savings would last and whether I could drum up much freelance work. But mostly I worried about whether I could handle all this alone. In my worst moments, I pictured myself exhausted and unable to communicate, hiding out in some noisy yet lonely apartment sending desperate, please-write-me-back e-mails to friends.

The search begins

I'd booked four nights at Posada Palermo, the bed-and-breakfast where I'd stayed on my previous visit. That gave me four days to rent an apartment — with my bad Spanish. I could've booked one sight unseen from the States — many Web sites broker short-term rentals — but I wanted to see where I was going to be living.

Four nights turned out to be optimistic. As sweet Alejandro Sarrias, the B&B manager, kept telling me, "You are in Argentina now." This was his way of saying that things don't happen quickly here, or in what we in the States might consider a professional manner.

People have been incredibly kind, and I've already had some wonderful moments I won't soon forget, including a lovely hour spent in the Dorothy Parker, a restaurant run by an old man from Uruguay and his 8-year-old grandson, Juan. Carlos Alberto Larzabal told me his life story (some of which I understood) while serving little dishes he thought I might like to try with my glass of malbec. I got all of that plus a kiss from each of them for $3.

But thus far, this has mostly been a trip of teeth-gritting, of saying, "I will walk one block this way and check the map again. I will keep on despite the rain. I will repeat my question for the fourth time in hopes that this stranger will make sense of it."

My first full day in Buenos Aires I walked 12 miles in the rain without seeing the inside of a single apartment. I'd made a list of possibilities the night before. I ran them by Alejandro over breakfast; he approved the locations and highlighted them on a map. But, he explained, most of my choices came from a company that wouldn't show apartments before renting them.

I decided to walk past them all and at least get a feel for the streets they were on. It took about five hours. My favorite turned out to be one advertised on craigslist. Perfect. I could see it. I e-mailed the owner that night, figuring I'd have an answer in the morning. I didn't. Still don't. And on a Friday, I discovered that not only does the company that represents my other choices not work weekends, it also won't be open on Monday because Monday is a national holiday to celebrate Argentina's unsuccessful invasion of the Falkland Islands.

'Nada'

The B&B was full, so I couldn't just extend my stay.

Alejandro and the posada's owner, Viviana Corte, have made all sorts of calls on my behalf. Viviana heard about one apartment that sounded promising, but so far can't reach the person who rents it. She's promised to keep calling. In the meantime, Alejandro got on the phone to his favorite B&Bs to see if one had a room.

With each phone call he made, and each "nada" I heard him repeat, the little lump that had formed in my throat got larger. I thought with longing of my cozy bungalow in East Atlanta. But here I am, and here I eventually will find a home. Alejandro finally lined up two nights in a tiny room with a shared bath at a sister B&B. I'll lug my 125 pounds of suitcases into a cab and head there tomorrow. After that, who knows?